The Incident of the Roses
by angellikehalos
Summary: When 9 murders have been committed, Sherlock did seem slightly interested in the case. After a run in with a brilliant woman, he gets more than what he bargained for than the Irene Adler encounter. Then, a forgotten secret comes out about the family that would rock them to the core. Friendship, action, family, mystery, and action. Set after HLV. R&R please. First fic!
1. Breaking In

Me: Hey guys. It's Halo.

Watson: You're serious about this story?

Me: Yeah. You guys bother me too much. I figured that I could do this.

Watson: You know how to write?

Me: You read my chapters.

Watson: True.

Sherlock: Halo, you're doing this?

Me: Yes. (shakes head) Here we go, guys. (looks over) Sherlock! God... Put that down! (sighs)

* * *

The rain pours down with clouds shrouding the night sky. Most people would find shelter from this weather. Cars driving safely on the wet asphalt roads. But, this night isn't like the expected nights that they should be. The rooftops soaked and attached are the rain gutters were loud.

Then, a figure dressed in black, hooded and wearing a cowl across its face. It ran from rooftop to rooftop, scanning the lights of London and its dreary weather. Its vision is strong, able to scan and view the city better than others. When it reached for the right window, it broke in the right window of building 221B. This figure in black crept in with not a crack, creak, or pop. Footsteps light as ever, lights still remained off with no one home. It pulled its goggles down from its hood carefully, turning on the night-vision camera. It scanned for the sake of those files that its flat owners left, which would be, the one and only, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.

As she scanned the files stacked in a ransacking manner on the kitchen counter, she carefully plucked the manilla file out from the third from the bottom. The nine murders that have been occurring all over the UK. This figure knew about these murders for a while. Its sources knew where to find this file. The reason being that this figure knew about these murders is because it may have been connected to shrouded figure. It opened the file carefully, reading the names, viewing the pictures, and reports that were wrote by the Scotland Yard. Those faces of innocent victims of homicide echoed into its mind. It blinked and tried to block those faces out, but it remained in the intruder's head.

The sound of someone coming rang the intruder's ears. The figure in shroud placed the file back where it was and left the rest to make the scene look like it never happened. Then, the being crawled out of the window, closing it as it crept out. Crawling on the wall and climbing to the roof, the figure ran across the rooftops. Running as fast, it made it down a few blocks before it got into its new silver sports car. The goggles were pulled up and under its hood. The car raced down the road, passing the city limits to the rural area where its residency is made in Greniville Manor.

Greniville Manor is one of the richest estates to be bought in the London and rural areas. Being it 7800 square feet, it proudly stood as a two story estate in traditional 18th century. Its phone rang as it pulled in, it answered.

"Speaking," the figure spoke in its voice.

Female.

"Now, do you believe?" a man on the other line, tone of voice as a 'matter of fact' tone.

"I do now," she replied. "You know this is a terrible idea."

"But, it's for you to make these things clear."

"You know what, dad? Why don't you help me out on this, get me cleared since you've never knew I existed, and you want me back in your life?"

"God, you sound like your uncle."

"Well, maybe you should've told me more about the family..."

"I'm sorry. Just please. Trust me and you'll be alright. Lay low. I'll get this sorted out."

"Good luck with that."

She hangs up as she pulled into her parking space, then steps out of the car. She pulls her cowl down and hood, revealing her face finally. Eyes like beautiful gray green color, brownish blonde hair, and a face of an angel. Oval with some sharp cheekbones and small pink lips. Her hair braided in one large curly braid. Her curves show through her battle suit that consists of a one black, full body suit that is made of breathable and flexible material. Being it custom design, it had some pockets and sheathes for small weapons, tools, and medicines. Her toothy smile emerged when she called for her house servant.

"Bartholomew. Could you check over my car and see if there is any traces, scan, look over?" She asked politely, being a kind woman.

Bartholomew is a fifty year old man that the woman hired from a few years back. He's a silver haired fox, few wrinkles show his age, yet still in good shape to serve in the Greniville estate. Dressed in a fine suit, he looked well for his age with his suit on. He nods, smiles with the corner of his mouth. "She's up to her antics again..."He walks over to the car, then examines the car as the mysterious walked into her manor.

When she entered, she is greeted by her gray husky. The large canine licked her hand sweetly, rubs her leg with its head. Smiling, the woman pets her, then heads to her office to do more of her paperwork and research.

* * *

Me: Whatcha guys think?

Watson: Next chapter we come in?

Me: Of course. It's a prologue a little.

Sherlock: I know the father. It's-

Me: (closing his mouth with my hand)

Sherlock: (mumble)

Me: Shut up. Don't do this.

Sherlock: But, she broke in our flat for a file?

Me: Shut it. Go and play your violin.

Sherlock: (gives an 'excuse you' look)

Me: (gives the 'don't start this')

Watson: God, you two are...

Me: I know.


	2. Illusions

Me: Starting up our next chapter after SOMEBODY took my guitar...  
Sherlock: I thought I could get the pick out for you, almost breaking it in the process.  
Me: Fine. You tried.  
Sherlock: (gets the pick out finally) Got it!  
Me: Thanks...  
Sherlock: Your welcome. Can you get me cigarettes?  
Me: Where's your patches?  
Sherlock: Ran out. I need some.  
Me: Fine. But, you write. (gets up)  
Sherlock: Alright.

* * *

When the door opened to his flat, Sherlock turns on the lights for some vision to scan. His wet, tousled blackish brown hair hung over his forehead. Pale skin touched with some water of the rain, still the deep crystal blue eyes stared to the window. His purple shirt and jacket are slightly soaked while his trench coat is drenched. Before he steps foot into his flat, he stops and analyzes all around him.

_"Cold hand print on the_ _window and dust has been cleaned with a few more finger prints. The faintest particles of dust, concrete, stone, and brick on the carpet. Slight impression on the floor to create a size 8 shroud boot print. A trail leads to the kitchen."_

Sherlock heads to the kitchen, his microscope remained untouched, then his eyes trail to the manilla files.

_"A file's been moved."_

These murders that occurred had that "serial killer" vibe as of others. These victims had their throats slit with a clean blade and "stupid and unintelligible idea" of a calling card. A fire and ice rose that has a few drops of blood on those petals. They appear to be freshly cut as of the day they first bloom. These murders always occur near the alleyways on rainy or moonless nights.

"What connection do they have?" Sherlock asked himself, pondering the theory. His theory was not of just random act since there is more than meets the eye.

He looks through some of the purchases that they last left in the world before their demise. One victim had ordered a security system a month before her death for her daughter and husband to make sure they were safe. Married for ten years, there was an affair that occurred with the husband. She found out, but clearly did not commit suicide. It was too erratic, too random than what she had in mind. There was no weapon on her person before she was killed.

He looked for other details on file, but it was air tight from what the Scotland Yard wrote down. Then, he turned to the other victim's file, a prominent bank teller that has been in his career for fifteen years. He's been alone for years when his wife left him, but he prefers to travel and expensive luxuries of life. His books are cleaned of air tight purchases, then the same security system that was in the checkbook. Sherlock turned to the checkbooks of the other victims. Same security system name appeared all in the consecutive months of the following.

_Icefire Security. _

"Icefire Security," Sherlock scoffed, grinning at the fact of security systems that can kill off clients if the money does not flow to the company. If no money goes to the business, foul-play can be a factor. He chuckled and then, he text John, who was out on a date night.

"_I found _a _break in that case of the roses. We have to contact the business of Icefire Security Services to get the owner.-SH"_

He taps the send button for his message. His smirk and eyes lit with his new found deduction. He waits for a few moments until his phone chimed.

_"That is good news, but not now, Sherlock. I'm still on my date."_

He huffs a little, then texts back: _"John, we need this case to be solved before another strikes. -SH"_

A little later, John comes back with his response.

_"Sherlock, I'm sure it won't happen. Besides what pattern do you see with the murders?"_

He carefully thought of this statement before he was interrupted with a small note that was hanging on his door. Small, white and written in red ink. The cursive note reads:

_"When you see me, I will ask the question: 'What is life's greatest illusion__?' You have 24 hours to answer this question correctly. See you tomorrow. -Rose"_

_"Fountain pen with red ink. Female. Very proper in calligraphy."_

He found this case more intriguing than the last few cases he had. It felt good to come back to London after the whole incident of Mary Watson and the fact of Moriarty is back. But, this case in particular has interest of it all. Something definitely is lying under the surface in this case and Sherlock is readied for what this will throw him into. He is now a victim of this serial killer. 'Rose' now happens to know where he lives. It can't possibly be Moriarty whatsoever. If Moriarty wanted to do this: it would have been something bigger, badder, and possibly the biggest thing to hit the UK like last time Sherlock encountered with him.

Mary Watson couldn't be actually doing this because he hasn't had too much involvement with John either. This is too erratic.

His phone chimed again to John's reply.

"_Anything that you know of that can relate to the murders?" _it read.

Sherlock typed up: _"Yes, actually. The killer wants to meet me. It has a question for me. But, I plan on visiting the security services tomorrow. You're coming along as well. -SH" _

He sent the text, feeling better about getting back into the consulting detective business. Back to his favorite pastime, playing murder and solving cases that he particularly wants to solve. He could feel things slowly going back to normal, which was slightly good. But what he doesn't know is: things are about to get much more complicated than he thought they ever would.

_"Fine, Sherlock. I'll see you tomorrow."_

* * *

Me: (walks in with a carton) This should last you for a while...  
Sherlock: Thank you, Halo.  
Me: You're very welcome. How does it look?  
Sherlock: Take a look.  
Me: (reads) Publish it.  
Watson: Did you actually get him cigarettes?  
Sherlock: I tried Halo's vaporizer and I didn't like it.  
Me: You what? Fine. You two are still guests... (grits teeth)


	3. Meeting Primrose

Me: (listening to Queen) Hey guys. Ready for the next chapter? Oh, by the way: last chapter, I added that whole illusion thing is because: one, I love Skyrim. Second, especially the Dark Brotherhood. If you, the reader, haven't played, I'm sorry for the slight spoilers with it. But, killing people in Skyrim is fun and it involves...murders!  
Sherlock: Did you say murder?  
Me: Yes, I did. If you wanna play assassin in the game, go ahead. (turns on the console)  
Sherlock: No. I want to play real murder.  
Me: No, Sherlock.  
Sherlock: John!  
Watson: Yes, Sherlock?  
Sherlock: I wanna play murder...  
Me: (sighs) Here's our chapter.

* * *

The very next day, Sherlock contacted Icefire Security offices. He was ready to deal with the sick, serial killer. The other line spoke a male, precise tone and strong voice.

"Good morning, this is Icefire Security services. How may I help you today?" the male voice asked as if he was really working there.

_"Sounds like he had enough of dealing with customer services with this company," _Sherlock mentally deduced.

"Yes, I would like to contact your supervisor for some 'help' and like to speak with her privately," Sherlock requested starkly. He knew this would get the man to contact the upper chain of command.

"I'm sorry, sir, but our supervisor is out and been out for a while. If you would like, I can contact her when she gets back. Just leave a name and number. I'll get it to her as soon as she gets back," the service representative replied cooly.

Sherlock smirked at this because most likely the killer is out and making her kills. This case is becoming a cake walk for all the wasted effort and deductions that he's already placed. Now, he can put away this killer for life on those nine counts of murder.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied and tied his number with the male representative.

"Got it. I'll call you back as she returns. Goodbye," ending the conversation.

* * *

As the male representative got the name and number, it cycled through the system straight to the Greniville Manor. The name and number got tied to the woman behind her desk. This time, the woman was dressed in black leggings, white button down, and black heels. Her hair pulled into a loose bun, dyed brown recently. She goes through files, paperwork, etc. Her fancied up pen that she got from her mother before she passed away from cancer. It was definitely a sentimental gift. Then, one of her secretaries, by the name of Anna, walked in.

Anna is a fiery red haired woman by the age of thirty two and dressed for success. She had a body of curved wonder, brown eyes of chocolates, and wore a black jacket, black pen skirt, and red shirt. Pearl earrings, pearl necklace, and a wedding band on her finger. She was a bright woman and very respectful with her supervisor and clients. She held her new clients' names and numbers' folder.

"Ma'am, are you busy?" Anna asked before she entered the office, knocked on the cherry wood door. The house was exquisite however for a strong company.

"Not much going on, Anna. Come in," the woman replied in the office, sounding cheerful.

Anna entered into the office, smiling wryly. In the office, it had a paint scheme of golds and oranges on the walls. A billiard table with cues on the rack, hanging is a stain glass light of blues, greens, and purples. Her desk is the same cherry wood and designed in sixteeneth century french trim. Behind her mahogany desk chair is a dragon head carved out of oak and mounted on a shield frame. Its eyes were replaced with painted, golden marbles. Two other chairs with the matching set of the desk chair and a dry bar by the french windows with all kinds of brandy and other liquors.

"Ma'am, here's your new clientele list of the month," Anna handed over the file, holding her breath from the last few incidents with her clients.

The woman accepted the clientele list, she opens and reads the names and numbers. She grinned, then took out her pen and circled a name and number specifically. She also added a time of when she wants to meet with this client. She handed the file back to Anna.

"Anna, get me Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in my office today. The time is on the file and call him back to let him know. And one more thing..." the woman ordered calmly. She's been needing to get his attention for a while and now, it is going to happen today.

"Yes, ma'am?" Anna wondered, scared that she might've messed something up.

"Good job," the woman concluded.

* * *

By noon, John was in the living room, eating lunch of a sandwich. He was dressed in his jacket, a normal white and blue shirt, jeans, and shoes. Sherlock, as usual, doesn't partake in eating much. He sat in his chair, discussing this case that seemed to be easy.

"This case is unbelievably easy and too boring to solve. It was slightly interesting with this serial killer, but leaving fire and ice roses every time with its victim is just plain stupid," Sherlock said, still scanning that file and note.

"What's this note, Sherlock?" John asked before he took his bite of the sandwich.

"Apparently, our little killer wants to play games with me now. It seems she's only got enough time before she strikes again. I still don't like riddles all that much."

John takes a look at the note and reads it aloud: "what is life's greatest illusion?"

Sherlock sat for a moment with his leg crossed and hands folded together, kept pondering the illusions. His mind was in full gear to deciphering the message that was left for him. In twenty four hours, he knew he would be confronted by the killer. He became lost in his thinking and deductions until his phone rang, interrupting his thought. It was a an unknown number.

"Hello, this is Anna. I am calling you on behalf of our company that our supervisor is in and she would be glad to meet you this afternoon at two o'clock," the secretary on the other line. She sounded rather friendly.

"Thank you, Anna. I'll be there at two," Sherlock concluded, then hung up.

"Guess our killer wants to meet her early," John said with a chuckle. He knew that he wasn't gonna let Sherlock go against someone that would actually kill him again. He was going to stick by his side until the very end.

* * *

By 1:45pm, they arrive at the gate with a security guard at the front. The guard dressed in its uniform of a white shirt, black slacks, black leather shoes, badge, walkie, and cap.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Here for an appointment?" the guard asked. He had a good disposition as Sherlock scanned him over.

_Uniform in good condition. Keeps himself cleaned for his job. Married happily. Two kids. Three dogs, preferably two Labradors and one retriever._

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. We have an appointment with the boss," Sherlock answered. The guard nods, reads the appointment list, then goes to open the gate.

"Go on ahead. Anna will be meeting you up. She's the secretary," the guard informed.

Sherlock and John walk into the estate, watching and scanning all around. The lawns finely manicured, asphalt road paved perfectly, peach rose bushes laid out around the manor. A white swing bench on one of the lawns. On the porch, a woman with red hair and dressed professionally waited for the gentlemen arrived. She smiled and greeted, "good afternoon, gentlemen. I'm-"

"Anna. I know how you are. The secretary that happens to cheating on your husband, frightened of your boss, and you wish to get away from here," Sherlock deduced quickly.

"Excuse me?" Anna retorted.

"You put on your make up quickly this morning, along with the fact that you probably have a cat. You also are married, but you also happen to take off your wedding band quite a bit with the condition of your ring since it's mostly dirty on the outside and clean on the inside. You bite your nails out of anxiousness whenever you are here."

Anna's lips pouted a little with hint of angered eyes and mutters, "I was going to be polite, but one upping me is enough too, jerk."

She leads them to the large office where they meet the woman of it all. The billiard room. Sherlock studied the room closely, sure signs that she was rich and enjoying the finer things. The woman dressed semi casual cracks the cue against the striped ball into the pocket.

"Ma'am, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are here to see you," Anna announced.

The woman looks up, she smiles, then comes over. She sticks her hand out for a handshake, "Primrose. Primrose Gallus."

_"American."_

John shook hands with Primrose, he nods with a small smile, "Dr. John Watson. Pleasure."

Primrose looks up to Sherlock, then she shakes hand with Sherlock, "Sherlock Holmes, I presume."

"Good to meet you. Now, I have questions about you," Sherlock stated.

"Alright. Go and have a seat, guys. We can discuss this in a diplomatic manner."

Sherlock and John takes there seats behind the desk, watching intently of Primrose.

_"Relaxed and easy going, works out quite a bit, married happily, mother's ring on chained necklace, passed away, studied engineering and medicine, clients pay real good, not much one for sitting behind this desk, but does anyway and built this company greatly. Loyal. Marine of four years, mostly intelligence work. Military brat. Always wanting to do business. Good etiquette. Doesn't splurge as much. Fond of dragons and cutlery, preferably medieval. Big billiard player. Owns a dog, husky wolf hybrid."  
_

"I guess you do your deductions in order for you to know someone?" Primrose asked.

"How'd you know that?" John asked quizzically, his eyes lit up in some surprise.

"I know these things. Especially if you try and sell or hire bodyguards. You gotta have the smarts for these things, even behavior as well."

"Very true. How long have you been in the business?"

"Six years. I have three homes in the world. I served in the Marines with intel for four years. I've traveled places. I continued my studies until I couldn't anymore in medicine due to the lack of funds and amount of loans. I was born in Denver, Colorado in August of 1988. I have dual citizenship here and the United States. Want anything, guys?" Primrose pulls out a cigarette and lights up, she puffs.

Sherlock looks at the cigarette, he inhales at the sight and itching for one right now.

"Primrose, do you mind if I have one?" he asked, trying to keep cool.

"Not at all. Need a pack?" she asked cooly, smiles a little. She pulls one out, then hands him a pack and a lighter.

"Thank you, Primrose."

"Not a problem. Ah, John, you need anything? Beverage? Cigarette? Anything?"

"Coffee's good," John answered.

"Alright, Bartholomew!"

The butler rushed in, looking at Primrose, "yes, ma'am?"

"Could you bring Mr. Watson a cup of coffee? Black?"

"Black," John requested.

"Right away, sir," the servant nods and heads out.

"Right, back to us. What questions do you have?" Primrose opened up.

"You know anything of those murders?" Sherlock asked, looking intrigued.

"Oh, those murders. I know they were my clients. They paid me quite well and respected me. They were great people. They just wanted security while we wanted ensure the safety of others. I can't believe it when our first client passed away. In case you guys would ask, I am not affiliated with the murders what so ever. If anything with this interview, I can provide you with the books, interviews, phone calls, and whatever you guys need."

Sherlock lit up his cigarette and puffed, "thank you for all the credibility that you can provide for us-"

"Look, fellas. I need your help. I wanted to employ your services if that's okay," she said.

Sherlock looked at Primrose interested. He knew that he caught his killer.

"I wanted to hire you guys because of these murders. I'm losing more clients than gaining due to those murders. Then, next of all: heads will turn and I'm accused of those murders. I had to shut down and select a very few amount of visiting clients every few weeks. It's just getting worse. I've gotten some threats from other people and few people want to hire me still. Please. I can compensate for anything that you guys would need. Money, hospital bills, supplies, clearance, I got it all. Just please. Clear my name. I'll also give both of you pay of a large amount of cash for this. Pounds and quids are no issue over here with us."

The door opens, a man dressed in the ebony uniform, black and gold pants, service cap on his left hand, and decorations all over them as a United States Army Lieutenant of a one stripe. His sharp face with brown eyes, a shaved head, his hat on his side. He walks in and then, back out.

"Sorry, fellas. My husband, Alec, just came home. Hope you understand. I hope we can conclude this meeting on a bright note. I'll give you my cell number just in case of emergencies on this case. I appreciate your time. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I hope we can really work together on this case," she rises from her chair and so do the guys. She shakes their hands, then escorts them out the door. As they walked out, John asks, "you believe her?"

"She speaks the truth. She isn't lying of what she was saying. She rolled real well. She offered evidence of the case and her name wants to be cleared," Sherlock deducted and puffed.

Then, Sherlock's phone chimed in text message, it was Mycroft.

_"Have you been to Greniville yet? -M"_

"Who is it?" John asked, interested.

"It's Mycroft. He's asking if we got here. He really is asking if we are at Greniville," Sherlock huffed, not too delighted to even hear from his older brother.

"Why would he want to ask it?" John asked, eyebrows slightly scrunched.

"I don't know," Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, then continued on the way out of the estate.

* * *

Me: I wanted to make this longer of a chapter and finally get the name out. Primrose. I know it sounds like a Hunger Games thing, but no. And Gallus comes from, you guessed it, Skyrim. Gallus was the name of the Thieves Guild leader and fellow Nightingale before he was killed. I actually like him, even if he played a small role.  
Sherlock: You play too many video games.  
Me: You play too much murder.  
Sherlock: At least I make money.  
Me: I'm still getting smarter and I have some medical knowledge too. My brain still has not rot yet.  
Watson: Do you have training?  
Me: Somewhat. I'm still learning.  
Watson: Keep doing what you're doing.  
Me: Thanks, John.


	4. The Watcher

Me: Let's get this chapter done.  
Sherlock: You sound tired and you look like it too.  
Me: Thanks, Sherlock. I've just got done with everything that had to be done.  
Sherlock: Want me to write this?  
Me: It'd be great. Thanks.

* * *

As Sherlock and John got back to their flat, they were greeted by Mycroft standing outside their door as if he had rush to see his little brother with worry. His ginger hair still showed, along with wearing his gray suit as if he were on business. Umbrella in his left hand, balancing himself up with it. His face showed some worry and interest of what just happened.

"Did you meet with her?" he interrogated Sherlock. His eyes full of stress and seriousness, wondering of what happened at Greniville.

"Why are you asking?" Sherlock eyed Mycroft as he walked up to him, perplexed, but holding his ground.

"You shouldn't have gone and seen her before you called me."

"You're still not my keeper, Mycroft. How did you even know that you were going over there?"

"Sherlock," he paused for a second, "I know who she is. She is dangerous."

Sherlock paused for a moment, thinking of those consequences. He thought carefully, _"she could be dangerous, but she showed no signs of being a threat to us. She gave us her number, told us if we wanted to call her, we could. But, some people in this world aren't what they seem... What if she was...an illusion herself?"  
_

"You might be right, but she showed no sign that she wanted to hurt us in any way. She wanted us to take her case and clear her name," Sherlock retorted with defense, "you might be right, but she showed no sign."

"Still, don't trust her. She's very dangerous," Mycroft pleaded with his brother, trying to protect his little brother.

"Then, how do you know about her, hmm?"

Mycroft instantly stopped talking, keeping quiet from his little brother. He tried to rack up a lie for his brother, but he knows if he attempts to lie, Sherlock could easily figure it out. His smug look showed his face, eyes still brooding.

"Well, how do you know her, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked once more, staring at his elder brother with piercing gray eyes.

"Sherlock, come inside. I think we might be able to talk about since she can watch us right now..." Mycroft said with trying to lose his brooding emotion.

Sherlock's eyes squinted some, still trying to configure this out. His look matches his elder brother's as they walked up the stairs to the flat. Sherlock walked to the door to his flat and opens it up to reveal a familiar figure in Sherlock's brow leather chair.

Primrose.

* * *

"Primrose..." Sherlock whispered, eyes widen in shock. _"How did she...?" _He looks to the window, then notices the window latches been fiddled with a knife, paint scratched off some.

Mycroft silently gasped, blinks, frozen in fear. John's lips pursed, staring at the brunette blonde woman with curly hair. She looked to her left and towards the gentlemen. She smiles, eyes soft green gray. She waves her hand towards the vacant seat, "hello, boys. Come. Sit, or stand. It doesn't matter to me."

"Primrose, how did you get in with Mrs. Hudson-" John began.

"She's out at the market," Primrose interrupted smoothly.

Sherlock comes over to Primrose, then stares at her. Primrose smiled sweetly, yet mischievously. Eyes still gray green, she raises her head slightly to stare upon Sherlock's face. Sherlock locked his jaw, lips pursed, staring intensely towards his intruder.

"Did we not just see you?" John asked, coming over to see her. He watches her movements to make sure that she won't hurt his best friend.

"I had to show you something that happened just last night," Primrose answered, "the murderer struck this morning. Two fifteen precise. Three victims, all had their throats slit and the same roses were left. But, our killer is getting creative though. When they found their bodies, there was no blood left. Not a single drop left at the scene. Talk to Lestrade about it. It's getting worse. Now, people are starting to talk. And I am not making this up."

Then, the phone rang in Sherlock's pocket. He whipped it out quickly, then looked at it.

"You're right," Sherlock said, gulps a little.

He answers, "Greg, let me guess: three murders. Roses left for them. This time, blood drained out of them."

"Good deduction, Sherlock. Now, get done here, quickly," Lestrade ordered, then hung up.

"Am I right?" Primrose said, still looking up. She toothly grins at him, eyes lit. This was the face of boast.

"You were right, but still doesn't mean that you're ahead of me," Sherlock spit out with a hint venom.

"Well, let's get down there, shall we?"

"No. You stay here. John. Keep Primrose here and that she does not leave."

"Oh, come on. Don't you think of me staying here is a little much? I think it would great to know what I am up against..."

"Nope. You're staying here," said Sherlock on his way out, Mycroft following.

As they gone down the steps, Mycroft stops Sherlock before he steps out onto the sidewalk.

"Sherlock, do you see what I mean?" Mycroft said, pressing this Primrose being a threat situation to him.

"Somewhat. She wasn't armed however, so she had no intentions to pose any harm," Sherlock stated, still showing that he can still trust her.

"After this case, do not let her back into yours and John's lives. Sherlock, she is a threat and she is just as brilliant and innovative as you. She's unstable as well."

Sherlock pressed onto this new crime scene, walking away from his brother. All Mycroft wanted was to make sure his little brother will be safe. He knew if Sherlock was around her constantly, more problems would arise quicker and become even too complex to wander aimlessly in. He knows the truth of Primrose and what she does.

He knows exactly who she is.

* * *

John watched Primrose closely, wandering about the woman that even almost outsmarted his best friend. To see that Sherlock was bested by this brand new woman that even hired them for his case. Primrose looked over and smiles, "I know you are wanting to ask questions, but you don't know where to start?"

"Not just able to start with a question, but I have plenty for you," John retorted, eyeing her close and watching her movements.

"Start off with one. I can answer them all for you to get things more clear."

"One: how did you know where we live?"

"I tracked Sherlock's phone when he called my service representative. I had to make sure that I knew who I was dealing with. When I knew it was you two, I had to at least hire you guys for this case."

John nods, then asks another, "two: how did you get in here?"

"The window actually. I did have lockpicks, but I've been running short of them. I unlocked it with one of my knives. I can also climb heights, walls, rooftops, and jump through windows too. I perform my own stunts and run a business. I like to do these things because thrills is just great. I enjoy the excitement and when I get bored, I get innovative with other ideas."

With that last sentence, it awfully sounds somewhat like Sherlock would say. The thrill, the non boring life, and the complication of cases.

"You know who you sound like?" John asked, smiling a little of asking the question.

"Who?" Primrose asked, smiles cooly.

"Sherlock."

Primrose laughs, then she goes for a cigarette in her pocket. She lights up, still smiling, eyes green blue as Sherlock's eyes would.

"Really? Hey, watch this: I'm Mycroft," then she pulls the smug frown just like the elder Holmes.

John gets absolutely shocked when he saw that mimicry on her face. The exact emotion of brooding Mycroft was pulled off effortlessly.

"How was that?" Primrose asked, chuckling and grinning.

"You pulled it off perfectly, actually," John said in surprise, tilts his head slightly. His thought, _"could she really be a Holmes? Possibly, but not probably. She jokes around a little too much than what Sherlock and Mycroft would ever do."_

Primrose's phone rang loudly to "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen in melody of the guitar. Freddie Mercury singing in its rhythm. John chuckles, recognizing that tune. Primrose picks it up smoothly and answers, "hello."

"Hey, babe. You still out?" her husband spoke. His gruff, yet loving voice is quite soothing. Even sounding off when he was a training instructor at several bases was still amazing of how he maintained his soft vocal chords.

"I am, dear. What do you need?" Primrose asked.

"I was just checking on you and making sure you didn't get killed.

She laughs softly, "no, baby. I'm still here. I'm at Sherlock and John's flat."

"Wait! Have you-"

"No. Not yet."

"Alright. But, it has-"

"I know, dear. Please don't say anything yet."

"Alright. You'll be home?"

Primrose looked towards John, whispers, "will I get to go home?"

John shrugs, "until Sherlock gets back."

Primrose groans, "not until Sherlock gets back."

"Oh. Alright. He's out?" her husband asked.

"Yeah. He's still working on that case I told you about that involves me..." Primrose answered.

"Oh yeah. Well, I'm glad that he can help."

"Yeah. I'll see you as soon as can, dear. I love you."

"I love you too, baby."

Her husband hung up, then she pocketed her phone.

"Happily married?" John asked with his hands folded in his lap, really happy that at least someone has a happy and normal marriage.

"Yeah. You? Oh, that's right. Your wife shot Sherlock," Primrose replied cold and with venom. Her face showed some cheekbones and actual anger in her stoic of stone.

John blinked, inhales sharply, shocked at what Primrose just said. She knew all along of what happened. His eyes lit and shown some serious sadness of having to see it happen. It flashed back to the whole scene and then, Sherlock leaving. It hit him in the heart and choked him up.

"How...did...you know?" John choked out, holding back those tears.

"I've known a lot of things, John. A lot of things. If I told you, it would be illegal of what I have been doing. Plus, I happen to know some people that informed me of what happened. It threw me in a depressive loop for a while," Primrose said with a tinge of sadness, concern, and sighs.

"How much do you know of Sherlock?"

"Actually, more than you know. But, they don't know is that I watch people. I protect them. I keep in tune of what's going on. It's just that I'm among the unknown and I continue my job and plan on taking care of them."

* * *

Me: *sleeping*  
Sherlock: Well, that concludes that. Review and please, no flaming comments. Now, I got some murders to solve. Thank you for reading and visiting.


	5. Guardian

Me: Hey guys. Halo's back  
Sherlock: And we're back to the case.  
Me: Yep. So, Sherlock?  
Sherlock: Hm?  
Me: No hard feelings of being mean to you and all the huffing?  
Sherlock: None what so ever.  
Me: Cool.  
Watson: Glad you two reached a compromise.  
Sherlock: You going to explain of what that was last night?  
Me: Now now, let's not get hasty. Gotta keep it interesting, you know?  
Sherlock: Very true. It keeps me amused of the details.

* * *

Primrose pulled the most serious face of them all, her eyes turned that storm gray color. You could almost see the lightning in their luster.

"Care to explain?" Primrose snarled a little, lips pursed, blinking the storm and lightning in her iris. John stared right at her and in the eyes. He could feel her stare pierce the veil of his soul, becoming a little terrified.

"How did you know in the first place?" John could only speak that question before he goes into detail, feeling her stare piercing him more. It was heart wrenching to ever recall such a painful memory. He could flashback everything of what his wife done to him, hearing the lies, seeing the pain and his best friend lying on the floor with a gunshot to the chest. He held the tears back, gulping as he could stare back into those cold, stormy eyes.

"I knew because I saw it happen. Even surprisingly, I was even there in the hospital when he was barely conscious. And you just walked right past me," Primrose said with her voice going stoic, her eyes seemed to have struck lightning into John's soul.

"You...were there?" John blurted in shock, pain.

"I was. I saw it happen. I wanted to scream out and I did. I saw it because I had two cameras in the room. I heard his scream. I cried in pain to hear it. I have it all on video," Primrose concluded, eyes still dark as a storm, almost the same color as Sherlock's when he would get mad.

John sat back, looking back at this mysterious woman, eyes still trained on the woman. Shocked by all this, he didn't ask another question for a while. He sat in silence, thinking, remembering what happened that night.

"Even the fake suicide, I knew about that. But, I knew why he did it. He wanted to protect you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. He did it for all the right reasons. And before you ask, I know all this stuff is because I install the security cameras for a living, John. And I've known all these things is because I do the tracking of people, establishments, and what not," Primrose admitted, watching John go into shock of finding out of these things. He can not believe that she has been tracking them for a long time, but what for? Extortion of information? Money? Security?

"Why do you care about Sherlock? Why? What makes him so special to you that you want to watch over him?" John asked, hint of jealousy and interest at the same time. His face grew solid, eyes dark as well.

"What you guys don't know..." Primrose gets up, then sees the note that was left a night ago. She reads it, her eyes widen and her eyes turn to a soft gray of surprise and pain. She learned to hide it better as well, but she is still in shock on the inside.

"...There's a storm coming and it's going to get very complicated. I hope you two know what you are walking into. If you two walk aimlessly in this case without any plans or resources, you two might not get out alive," she concluded.

"Did you leave that note there for Sherlock with someone's other signature that you told them to write, then?" John asked blatantly, showing strength of his emotion and interrogating question.

"No. But, I have an idea of who wrote this. I don't believe that she can be back... This," she showed the note, "is just the edge of the cell of the storm. It's going to get very dangerous. He shouldn't have left me here. Not that I don't I mind you being here and what not. But, she's going to strike soon. I know it."

John said, "if I let you out, you won't be too much trouble, would you?"

"Oh, of course not! What I'm trying to do is save Sherlock from winding up dead at the hands of this psycho! It's just going to get more complicated if we stall. Just please: let me go," Primrose snapped, a small snarl on her face.

"Who is she, then?"

"Just as you see it. Rose."

* * *

By the time Sherlock showed up, he came to an alleyway with Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson were. They were looking over the crime scene, examining even the slightest piece of evidence that can be beneficial. Lestrade greeted Sherlock, "came just in time. Young lass found them an hour ago. No trace of blood anywhere nearby. No trail, but three roses were left on their bodies. It appears as if someone just drained the blood out of them."

"Of course there is no trail, but by the look of it, they were frozen. Clearly you should look at their fingers and lips. Frostbite. Clearly they've been thawed out by the weather, but there is a little left on their fingertips. They were killed where they were in a freezer. Their throats' were cut deep with a sharp and clean blade. Preferably like a cook's knife, sterling silver," Sherlock deduced with only a glance of the victims. He crossed to see the victims. Two men and one woman. Just as precise as Sherlock deduction.

The woman was dressed in a black tweed coat, sapphire blue pinskirt, white shirt with some gray and black grime all over, and gray heels. Her pale skin turned blue from remaining in the freezer, her neck where she had her throat slit looked like the a cold, purple packaged meat. Her body lain out face down, on her stomach, arm out, holding out the blue with tinted red rose in her right hand. Her hair in a mess of a poorly put up in a bun, hair strands loosely covered her face. Sherlock looked close to find what appeared to look like specks of meat and blood. Then, he looked closer to the other victims that had the same meat specks on the their clothes. Their throats slit the same way.

_"Butcher's freezer is where they were kept. Killed in the freezer. The woman is a baker and business owner that was an innocent bystander, single."_

The other two victims still held out with their hands where a rose was placed in the same hand as the lady victim. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught with a view of a white envelope behind a bush on the brown wooden fence. He walked to the bush, then pulled the envelope from its perch, a red seal kept it closed together. The seal had a scarlet red color and symbol of a rose and lotus flower designed. He looked at the side of a crack and saw what partially looked like a picture was taken, gloss and in black and white filter. He opened it carefully, wondering what this sick psycho left him. He unfolded the three fold picture, then his eyes go wide. He doesn't speak, doesn't move, frozen in fear of what he just unfolded.

This picture contained what was him several years ago, his old figure lain out in the alleyway. Long, shaggy black hair, sickly thin figure, curled on the asphalt road, and dressed raggedy as ever. Substances of drugs left all around him.

_"How...did...this killer get my past?"_ he thought cold and calculated, stunned of the present that his prey left him. This is a ravenous, personal attack that he still couldn't believe.

A voice called out, the same voice of the same woman. Primrose, once again.

John follows Primrose close, knowing now that she can be trusted. Her clothes are different this time. Her same old ebony, black espionage suit. She flashes a quick badge to one of the officers and walks up to Sherlock. Sherlock looked up at her and John, showing a stoic face, but still hiding his shock that rattled him of that picture.

"Thank god, you're still safe," John said, showing some concern towards his best friend.

"Sherlock, can I talk to you for a moment?" Primrose asked, eyes softly pleading towards him.

Sherlock walks a little bit with Primrose, then pauses as she does.

"Is this some sick joke you have for me? I know of what you do and this security camera job you have. How did you get this?" Sherlock hissed, showing anger with his growing dark.

"No. It's not me. It's Rose. I'm telling you. It's her. I don't even know how she got a hold of it. Sherlock, look," she pauses, wets her lips a little of what she has to say, "a storm is brewing. A huge storm. It's going to get very nasty and dangerous."

He looks at the curved woman, wearing the same shroud boots that created that footprint, a silver and smooth cowl, and fingerless black gloves.

_"Ready to strike. A climber, jumper, and expert of parkour. Armed already with two 9 mm. Glocks. Her hair pulled back perfectly. Rope gun like the movies."_

"I find it hard to believe that you aren't what you seem. Just an illusion of yourself," Sherlock snarled, his gaze hasn't left Primrose in enough fear.

"I'm not an illusion. I'm real. I have plenty of covers, but it's protect everyone and myself. I'm here to warn you that a storm is coming. And it's going to get dangerous. If you, John, and I are to get out alive, you two need to trust me," Primrose concluded, her eyes turning ice cold blue, filled with worry and strength.

"Who sent you to look after me and John?" Sherlock asked, focusing on her.

"Excuse me?" Primrose retorted, looking like she just got caught.

"I shouldn't ask you twice of the question if you are that smart."

Primrose keeps her lips shut, pursed, glaring at the blue eyed man. She held her ground, not exposing anyone.

"Did Mycroft told you to do this?" Sherlock asked, making a theory. He watches this woman, looking for any change, but none in her eyes, lips, or any motion. Holding still, not speaking a word.

"Tell me. Now," Sherlock barked, his demanding tone and agitation showing in his voice.

"He did. He told me to watch you when he couldn't," she answered, lowering her head.

"So, what? You have been watching me of what I do? What's been happening around me? Do you know that's still an invasion of privacy?"

"Mycroft paid me so much money to watch you when he couldn't. Then, when John came along, I had to still keep watch. I know what happened with all the things you've done," Primrose confessed, guilt sinking into her and feeling like a weight has been lifted off of her at the same time.

"You were watching the whole time and I did not even see it..." he paused for a very long time. He makes his hands like a steeple and rests them above his chin, thinking.

Primrose kept quiet with him, trying not even to say a word. It was all out there now. Her cover blown wide open, in front of the consulting detective. She looks in fear that he would attack in some way.

But, only Sherlock just slowly started having a grin on his face, grinning ear to ear. He starts chuckling, shaking his head, removing his steepled, skinny hands. Laughing now, Primrose looked at him in a quizzical look and emotion.

"What are you laughing about?" She asked, looking at this brilliant, mad man.

"You, Primrose. You. All this time. You've been so clever all this time and didn't even know about this. Oh, god. This is too good, Primrose. You even out bested me when you kept watching. From the very beginning to now. Wow," Sherlock said, then kept laughing.

Primrose didn't know what to say of Sherlock. Usually, if her cover was blown, she'd be punched, slapped, yelled at, or worse, getting nearly killed. But, Sherlock, he's an interesting case. Then, she gained her courage and gathered her words to say.

"I have been. Ever since you moved into the new flat and then, John moved in. I've followed you since then. Plus, the whole fake suicide, the Baskerville Hound case, and..." she pauses.

"Me getting shot. You can say it. Did you see the whole thing?" Sherlock asked, hoping that he wasn't crazy.

Primrose nodded, "I saw it. I screamed when you did, crying. I blamed myself for it for not being there, but I saw John rush to your side. My heart raced and in tears. Then, when I found out you were alive and made it through surgery, I was very relieved that you pulled through. And well, when you were unconscious in the hospital room, I paid a quick visit as well. But, you were really out of it."

Sherlock, actually, was surprised in one of the very rare times that he's ever been. To be out bested not once, but twice. By both being women. He looks back at Primrose, smiling. His kiddish laughter was slowly becoming evident in front of her. She smiles, chuckles with him of what insanity of a life they have. She was secretly his guardian angel without even having to know about this.

"Oh, what an insane and small world this is. Are you still mad about the invasion of privacy?" Primrose asked and chuckled, eyes softly lit with being a light jewel green.

"I am still upset, but I can find a way to cope with that. Now, I think we should get back to work," Sherlock said, smiling still, ready to play this next game of murder. "You're now welcome to help assist with me and John, Primrose. Ready to play this game of murder?"

"Damn straight, Sherlock," Primrose answered with a grin, feeling much better about letting it all out of this burden and still being able to help. Her and Sherlock went back to the scene to examine more evidence with John.

* * *

Me: What do you guys think?  
Sherlock: I actually like this.  
Me: Yeah?  
Sherlock: Pictured it perfectly.  
Me: Cool! Now, I hate to do this, but it's hiatus time for spring break.  
Watson: Ohhhh, but it's just getting better.  
Sherlock: True, but it's her spring break.  
Me: Yeah, sorry fellas.  
Watson: No trouble. We rarely get a break.  
Sherlock: True. But, Halo, take this break. We'll get new ideas soon.  
Me: Thanks, guys.  
*They dissipate*  
Me: Leave reviews, comments, or favs, but no flames please. Be safe and smart.


	6. Assassin

Me: Halo again. Just here chilling. I planned on this chapter for a while. Time for a bit of action, eh?  
Sherlock: Good cause it seemed to drag a bit.  
Me: Yes, yes I know.  
Watson: Add a hint of adrenaline?  
Me: Why not? Continuing..

* * *

The trio walked back to the scene, looking at their victims of a senseless murder. Primrose's lips were thin lined, then knelt down towards the male victim, then raised her eyebrow in slight surprise. The man was in his late 30's, slick blonde hair, worn a black coat, a gray t-shirt, brown jeans, and docker shoes.

Then, Sherlock chimed in, "he's one of your client's, judging by your interest. My deduction is that he's the husband that cheated on his wife, the first victim. His small golden locket that oddly enough has his daughter's picture in it. However, she passed away a month ago. He cheated on his wife because of this loss. The stench of the perfume of his lover is faint, but there. I've seen his picture with his wife in the file, along with yours. His relation with the woman that is the baker here is the faint pink burn marks on his hands and knuckles. His absence of ring mark on his finger is there as well pointed out. Just came back from a trip from some vacation with the slight tan lines. Am I correct?"

Primrose got up slowly, looking at Sherlock with some surprise and amazement. Even she knew about this because of the security cameras. Then, a smirk on her face spread across her small pink lips. She knew this was a man that had a gift, a unique and powerful gift. She shoves her hands in her pockets, leans back a little on her heels. Her belief of him becoming a useful consulting detective certainly caught her interest. Sure, she had her cameras, her security systems, bodyguards, and influences over the city. But, this is something that she has to admire of him using his senses around him. This is someone she does have respect for. She doesn't see him as a freak as others would think the first time people would meet.

"Why do we always have to bring the freak here?" Anderson called out as he walked over to Sherlock.

Primrose turned from her admiration and respectful look into disgust. Sometimes, there always have to be that one person to show such disrespect to the gifted ones. Like her experience at Basic Military Training when she turned eighteen. When she first got into the training grounds, she got a face full of yelling, cussing, and all hell towards her. But, she knew it was because they break you down to build you up to a Marine.

Sherlock scoffed, he knew better to just make Anderson shut his trap by quipping. Just as about as Sherlock opened his mouth, Primrose came back with a sharp comment, "shut up. You're lowering everyone's IQ in the alleyway when you open your mouth."

Sherlock turned to see Primrose, half impressed and half in disbelief. He cocked one eyebrow, eyes glued to her for a moment.

"I was just about to say that," he thought in disbelief. She beat him to that comment.

Anderson opened his mouth again, "so, you brought another pet, huh, freak?" Primrose retorted in sharp and slight venom seeping of a comment, "I'd suggest you leave him to work and do his job. I have a total of four years of Marine training and I'd be glad to help shut that trap of yours shut with my barehands and a safety pin. So, I'm only warning you once, shut your trap."

By then, Anderson actually kept his mouth shut and listened to the woman. She smiled slowly, blinks, shows her sharp teeth briefly before her face contorted to a cold, stoic, and slightly aggravated woman. Then, turned to the crime scene and examined the next victim.

The next victim was a man with a black shirt, gray jeans, tennis shoes, had brown hair with little flecks of gray hair, and scraggly beard. His hand outstretched with the rose in the victim's hand. His body covered in some grime, looking like dirt and oil. Preferably, he was a mechanic and owned a shop nearby.

"His shop is not too far from here. He was walking home and must've stumbled onto the killer..." Sherlock paused for a second, then he looked closer to the ground. Blood trail by a few droplets. It lead to the concrete sidewalk as it starkly showed. He followed, then mapped in his mind of where the killer would go. He picked up the pace, getting into the killer's head and motive. He rounded a corner, then to another alleyway. A bloody handprint on a post revealed a deeper clue to the location, its mahogany color was well imprinted on the wood.

_"You want to play a game, I have a game for you," his killer's mind spoke to him. _Then, he looked up to the rooftop's 20 foot ledge, the tiniest speck of blood was there. He smirked, knowing that his trail was carving into quite a case that he's been wanting. He kept wondering what connection these people had. He closed his eyes, searching his mind palace and accessed all the memories of it all.

_What connection do they have? What makes them a prime target? Icefire security. They must have had secrets of what they have done. One was a lover, the other was a loner. The other was a baker, while the other was a faker. Illusion. What seemed of illusion? Then, Primrose and him, "you're not what you seem". Lying. Secrets. Guilt. Then, it dawned him. _

He jolted up when that word hit him like a static charge.

_Innocence._

* * *

By the time Primrose and John showed up, Sherlock was already waiting for them to catch up. Primrose stood with her hands on her hips, standing her ground in front of them. She looked towards Sherlock, then pondered the brilliant and intelligent young detective. His grin was from ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat, that gleam in his eyes that showed he knew something. She eyed him, then asked, "what are you grinning about? Found something relevant to the case, I guess."

Then, she softens her stance, waiting for the detective's answer.

Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin, grinning like a child with a new and impressive toy. Then, he looked to the window up on the third floor of the abandon building. Something moved from the window, a shadow of sorts, then out of sight. Primrose pursed her lips, glaring to the window. They finally pinpointed the killer, Primrose has been wanting to catch this perpetrator. This "Rose" has been causing hell for her for months. Now, she can come face to face with her.

"Sherlock, wait here," Primrose commanded, grabbing her rope gun. She aimed and fired to the window sill. She took out her Glock out of her holster, then took to the skies in a rush. She fired at the window, but the shots weren't loud. Silencer.

_"It's not like this is her first time," _the detective deduced in his mind,_"what makes her dangerous? She possibly is an assassin all along."_

Lightning cracked from the windows, then louder gunfire sounded from the building. Sounding like fireworks and louder bangs sounded all throughout. Sherlock watched, keeping his gaze up there. He could hear screaming, gunfire ringing through the building. Then, he came back to reality, knowing his possible ally (or assassin) gunning down or being gunned down. He moved to the building before John stopped him, looking up at him.

"I heard the gunfire. Are you okay, Sherlock?" John asked with a small hint of panic. His eyes wide and ready to fight. He was armed already with the pistols.

"I'm fine, John. Apparently, our client decided to charge into the building. I'm going in to find her," Sherlock answered.

"You're not going alone in there. You need my help," John said, knowing he heard the shots from a distance. He was armed and yet, relieved that the detective wasn't shot, gunned down, or anything bad happened.

The gunfire stopped for a second, giving them ample time to break in and the element of surprise. When the detective got to the door, he shot its hinges off, then planted a kick onto the wooden door. The old door snapped off and the duo covered each others backs, watching for anymore gunman. Adrenaline pumping through the two, their fight or flight response kicking it into high gear. Both of their senses working in overdrive, then a slightest creak emerged in the cold silence. The two looked up to the stairs, carefully creeping up. Then, the sound of an angered growl escaped and a shot escaped. The duo crept back for a second, then Sherlock called out, "Primrose, if that's you, do not fire. Do you hear me?"

Silence for a few moments, which seemed like a long time until a voice sounded which was familiar, "I hear you, Sherlock. Come up."

The duo made their way up the dusty and moldy hallway, its wall already rotted away and exposing the foundation. Sherlock and John made it down the long hallway, bodies and bodies of black and leather clad gunmen strewn along. Bloodstains and splatters along the wallpaper, the metallic odor of blood became very pungent and strong. All of the men, dead, each with a blow to the head or the chest. John has seen many battles and gun downs before, but this is on a scaring level. She is dangerous as Mycroft told them, but they didn't know on how much of a scale she would be.

When they entered the room where the window was busted through on the far left, they opened the door to see Primrose standing in front of the window, still battle stance and on her guard. Her gaze held as stone and perfect, eyes darkened as a storm, breathing steady. Of course. She was a Marine. She fought and did these things that she isn't proud of. She hunts and fights, just like the perfect wolf and weapon. She is a weapon.

"Primrose, what have you done?" Sherlock asked, looking upon the assassin, holding his icy gaze at her.

"It was a setup. I only follow a trail until it is cold. Then, I sniff out more. Remember? I am a Marine and I worked with Intel for four years. I've done things that even you two wouldn't have done in a life time combined. I was built to be a machine. You, Sherlock Holmes, you are the world's greatest and only consulting detective," Primrose rambled, then lowers her weapon, staring at him only, "but, everyone has their days. I don't mind being on the front line. Now, we should get back to business."

"How can you get back to business if their are some many bodies of gunmen here? You killed them because they were a part of this 'Rose's' scheme. Simply burning this building would leave more traces. Unless if you are that smart, I'd suggest you run, "Sherlock stated.

"Oh, you've underestimated me, Sherlock Holmes. You've clearly done just that. You see? I've learned more than just that. I have a special compound bomb that I can easily set off by a trigger I have here," Primrose stated as she pulled out a special hand trigger with a big red button.

"Fellas, I'd suggest you run. Now," she warned, then gestured her hand to shoo them out.

The two stood there to see if she was actually bluffing about the bomb. She held her gaze, then pressed the button. A small fire started near the curtain by an outlet. She was clever, too clever. Her grin spread off her turned demon face, then jumped out of the window. Perfect swan dive as well. A brilliant form. Smoke rushed into the air, flames now lit in orange.

They ran out of the room, then trotted down the old steps in a rush. Before they knew it, they were in the street and across from the building. Windows exploding, flames licking through, then a loud explosion sounded through the street, causing everyone to duck under and hide. Sherlock and John looked at each other to make sure that they were not harmed. Luckily, they made it out alive and safe. It wasn't long until Sherlock's phone chimed of a new message. He pulled out his black rectangle phone out of his pocket.

_"Before you think for a moment, I'm not dead. Thank you for this game, Sherlock. But, it's just begun with the decoy. Primrose is starting to come more clear, isn't she? You have two hours. Meet where you're second beginning came from. Remember, it's just the beginning. -R"  
_


End file.
